


Let the children come to me

by Pikkulef



Category: Ripper Street, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, mentions of children abuse and death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:14:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8445472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pikkulef/pseuds/Pikkulef
Summary: Missing children all over Whitechapel, and it takes rich slum tourists for this to get the interest of a famous consulting detective.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old cross-over fic I am still working on... but due to my work, I cannot guarantee the updating frequency. Like, at all.

Christmas 1889.  
  
  


        Long-serving Sergeant Atherton was snoring on his chair. He had every right to. It was Christmas Eve and the whole station was dead silent, empty, save for the few damned souls in the cells downstairs, and the other two, probably damned too, on the first floor. He had fallen asleep without noticing, in the middle of a nice thought about his children. Although he had started to think about them for less pleasing reasons. 

  
“Sergeant.”  
The low, deep voice triggered no reaction from Atherton.  
“Sergeant!”  
Snoring stopped. And started again after a few seconds.   
“ATHERTON!”  
The Sergeant jumped from his chair, eyeing his two superiors, detective inspector Reid and sergeant Drake, who gave him his stare back.   
“Inspector?  
“Sergeant, why don’t you treat yourself to some of your own medicine?” Reid tilted his head towards the coffee pot, long cold by now. “And us too, while you're at it.”    
  
        Atherton hurried to his feet and lit the flame up under his coffee pot, while the Inspector and his faithful Drake stood silent, red eyed and not at all merry enough for the day. No one spoke until they all were served a cup of black, steamy coffee; the kind that could replace this electricity the whole world was crazy about these days. Drake took a sip, threw a side glance at Reid who was considering his cup with an air of total desperation, and leaned over Atherton’s counter.   
“Don’t you have anything to help us gulp down this poor drink, eh, Atherton? In honour of the birth of baby Jesus?   
“Ah, sure I do, Sergeant.” At least Sergeant Drake kept his head screwed on. It was still Christmas after all. Atherton produced a dusty rum bottle and three shot glasses from under his stand.   
They clinked their glasses.   
“Merry Christmas.   
“Christmas will be a lot merrier when we find that “one eyed, white as a sheet, smelling like beer” personage. Shall we go back to our registers now, Sergeant Drake?    
“Do not forget “bald and tattoos on the hands”, inspector. But let’s have a second one first, to Jackson, who’s having a lot more fun than us in Ms Hart’s house.   
“All right, to Jackson.   
“Heh, and Best, too. May this bugger choke on his damned paper tonight. Er, if I may, sir.  
“If only, Sergeant.”  
  
        The door opened as they were putting their glasses down, and two men entered, followed by a few snowflakes. The first one, in a fancy black suit and top hat, was tall, thin, and sported a very angular, clean shaven face. The other was his total opposite: short and stocky, with a round face and a blond moustache, clad in brown tweed and wearing a bowler hat almost too big for his head.   
Inspector Reid’s expression became inexplicably sombre. He straightened up – which made him even taller than their visitor; you could probably have fit twice of that beanpole of a man in the DI’s suit. Atherton glanced at Drake. Drake glanced back. He didn’t look very happy either. They all knew who these two were, but Atherton couldn’t really fathom why his superior was so angry to see them in his station. A visit from the famous Sherlock Holmes! Papers had been all about him and his assistant’s stories for about two years now. And well, of course they were kind of stealing their jobs, but it was usually the job of other divisions, in better places. Nothing much for Sherlock Holmes in Whitechapel.   
  
Maybe that was why.  
  
    The great Sherlock Holmes took off his long black coat, brushed some of the dirty, almost sooty snow off its shoulders, and hung it up nonchalantly on the coat rack, over Inspector Reid’s own vest. The Inspector himself had walked a few steps towards them, hands in his pockets.   
“And what can we do for you, gentlemen?   
“Detective Inspector Reid, I assume.” He took off his gloves with a flourish. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.  My assistant, Doctor Watson here, and I have just been contacted by the afflicted Wainworth family, on the case of their missing boy. They say they gave you the kidnapper’s description but you just sent them back home. We’d like to hear everything you might have on this character, or have a look at your registered convicts, to be able to bring back this boy to his loving home as fast as possible.  
Drake burst off angrily, stepping away from the counter towards the two men, only to be stopped by Reid’s arm; but that didn’t stop him from shouting : “Sure we aren’t doing anything! Where do you think our constables are? Enjoying the snow? What do you think we are doing here right now? Exchanging about the weather?   
“Sergeant, please.”   
Drake couldn’t understand how Reid was able to keep calm. They had talked about Holmes for hours on length; and not in praise.   
“Well, exchanging drinks, merely, weren’t you?”  
  
    Atherton looked down, his reddening nose diving in his shot glasses, which he swiftly stored away, along with the rum bottle. Drake frowned and fumed, still behind his superior’s extended arm; Reid just tilted his head. The three policemen could easily spot Holmes’ assistant, still at the door, roll his eyes at this.    
“One needs fuel to read through pages and pages of convicts descriptions. We’ve been there all night! But you wouldn’t know about that, you blo–   
“Sergeant Drake.  
“Sorry, sir.” Drake kept his icy blue stare fixated on the consulting detective. “But I do not like this Mr Holmes coming here to teach us our job, sir. Not one bit.”   
Holmes didn’t even react; but Watson, who looked definitely tiny between Holmes and Reid, had stayed silent until then. He spoke up in a warm voice.  
“Let me apologize for my friend’s bluntness. We should try and work together. Put any eventual disagreements aside, in the interest of this boy.”  
  
    Atherton was relieved. There was at least one sensible person in this room. As to why it was not the Inspector, so keen on finding that boy and the others as fast as possible, who had come up with this, he had no idea.   
Reid shot a long look at Holmes and Watson. When he spoke, his voice was still calm, but you could feel the tension underneath.  
“I do not like this, either, Sergeant. But I agree with Doctor Watson here, I want this case to be put to an end as fast as possible. You see, Mr Holmes, you may have heard of the Wainworth boy, but here in Whitechapel, it is six children that we are looking for. All taken away from their families by a man of which we have more or less been given the same description. But you haven’t heard of them. These families are not the kind to cross the city to ask for you, nor are they the kind to interest you, I would guess. Maybe we can –“  
The door burst open on a staggering man covered in snow. With a bottle of what could have been whisky in his hand, he stepped in, got tangled in his own feet, and fell down face first on the floor.   
“MERRY CHRISTMAS Y’ALL!”  
  
    Reid sighed, and let the bewildered – if one such thing was even possible – consulting detective and assistant behind  to walk up to Jackson, who was now lying on his back on the floor, giggling. Reid leaned towards the American and spoke quietly; but it still rang in the silent station’s hall.  
“And what are you doing here, uninvited, at this hour, Captain?”   
Jackson smiled and pointed a finger towards his bottle.   
“I came to share a drink with my friend, Reid. Cause I knew you’d be there, right? And Sergeant Drake. If he’s been a nice boy. I guess he’s my friend, too.  
“You’ve been kicked out of Ms Hart’s place.”   
Jackson answered Reid’s interrogative look with a half grin, blinking slowly. Probably trying to remember.  
“I’ve been kicked out.”  
Reid held out his right hand, pulled Jackson up back on his feet, and conscientiously brushed the snow off his shoulders, gesturing to Atherton to pour what was left at the bottom of the coffee pot in a cup. Jackson himself stood there, holding his bottle and looking blankly at the visitors.   
“Gentlemen, I present to you Captain Homer Jackson, ex-Pinkerton and invaluable army surgeon.” He added, as if what he had said before wasn’t enough:   
“He is American.”


	2. Chapter 2

 Drake pushed the door of the archive room open. “This is all yours. Hope you’ll have as much fun as we do. We’ll be upstairs, if need be. And Sergeant Atherton here will provide you with coffee.”  
Reid had disappeared with the American in the dead room – probably trying to put him back on his feet with something stronger than coffee – leaving him with the dirty work, as always. Drake had lead the consulting detective, who was looking at everything with an air of disheartened curiosity, and the little doctor to the archives, where they could find copies of the registers he and Reid were peering through moments earlier.  Holmes dived instantly into the files, apparently reading at a terrifying speed, but the little doctor had stayed behind.   
  
        Drake couldn’t help: he was far more interested in the doctor’s story than in whatever the detective was doing. “I, er, I read you’ve been to Afghanistan, sir.   
“You read right, Sergeant. Thought I wasn’t on the field for that long.” Watson had a little smile under his moustache. “Where did you serve, yourself?”  
“Ah, eh, Egypt, sir. Wouldn’t have thought this was so easy to spot.” At least with sleeves down, he thought.   
“Very few people are more interested in the assistant than the master of the art, Sergeant; besides, I have picked up a little trick or two, working with him.” Watson frowned, and continued in a lower voice. “To be fair, I shall say I’m happy to see a servant of Her Majesty back on his feet after his service. I probably shouldn’t say this, but one too many have been left to themselves with nothing much and sank to the bottom.”   
Drake could only nod in agreement, a sudden lump in his throat,  thinking about someone else with the same opinion. He left Watson and Holmes, and climbed back up to the offices and his own reading.   
  
        “Dammit, Reid! Stop… trying to make me… drink this…!”  
Reid had let Jackson collapse on a chair while he prepared a mix of the diverse drugs that were lying around the morgue. Now he was crouching next to him, fighting with the whining mess the Captain had apparently decided to be that night.   
“You have chosen to come here.” He punctuated every word with poking Jackson’s arm with his pointed finger. Jackson was making faces, looking around, obviously annoyed.   
“Now, you stay, you help. If you do not, you can go sleep it off out in the snow, for all I care.  I do not have time for this.   
“I’ll do just that, get busted for vagrancy and back here in a few. Lemme go.” Jackson motioned to get up, but Reid’s firm grip on his shoulder pinned him back down to the chair.    
“Not by H Division, no. Not tonight. Now, unless you want to be found by Shine’s boys and be brought to K, DRINK. I need you up and about as soon as possible.   
“But there isn’t even a body in there, why would I be needed? I cut up bodies. My job. Dead bodies. You don’t have those here now.”  
“Not now, but I know you can be better than that. We need all the help we can get. Now drink or I will kick you out myself.”  
  
    A grumbling Jackson was holding the glass up to his mouth when a sudden shout almost made him drop it.    
“DETECTIVE INSPECTOR REID!”   
The booming voice of Chief Inspector Abberline echoed in the corridor, followed by a chorus of hurrying footsteps. Reid barely had time to stand up when the door burst open on Abberline, who immediately stepped aside to leave the way to a short constable. Carrying something in a white cloth. Something tiny.   
Reid and Jackson both felt their heart sank.   
“You – “ Abberline growled and pointed at Reid from the other side of the room, as the constable delicately layed down the little white form on a dissection table.   
  
“You have failed. Again.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connexion is up and running so I might as well add something while it lasts. After MONTHS of stalling, this story finally takes form, and I know more or less where I'm going with this... we'll see how it goes. 
> 
> (read the end notes after reading the chapter)

The Chief Inspector had left as he had arrived, storming and shouting, leaving to bring the terrible news to the parents. All that was left in the morgue was silence, and the young constable dancing from one foot to the other next to the dissection table.  
“You got your dead body.” Reid whispered. Jackson, already pretty sobered up, gulped down the mixture he still held in his hand, without a word, crazed eyes fixated on the white shape.  
“Now, get to work.” The inspector added, all the while allowing the constable to run away with a brief look, following Jackson to the dissection table.

The captain motioned to spread the sheet open, but stopped as he caught sight of Reid’s hands gripping the side of the table, knuckles white. Jackson let his hands fall back to his sides.  
“Listen, Reid.” His drawling voice was even slower than usual, careful. “Abberline is an asshole, we all know it. And, you know, you probably should -  
“Chief Inspector Abberline is your superior as well as mine. I shall not permit this kind of speech in my station. Get to work, Jackson.”  
The captain let out a heavy sigh, breathed in, and uncovered first a mop of blond hair, then a bloodless, almost grey, dirty little face. He swallowed hard, and opened the sheet wide, revealing expensive clothes, spotted with filth.  
“Blond hair, blue plaid jacket, about seven. He fits the Wainworth’s child description.” Reid kept his voice low, lower than usual in there, as if the child deserved more respect than all the dead people these walls had seen before. Jackson knew it had nothing to do with social rank.  
“Expensive rags, allright. They didn’t give you a picture?  
Reid winced. “Wouldn’t.  
“Ain’t it odd, coming from such big shots ?”  
Reid waved the question away, leaning back towards the frail figure. “What do you reckon he died from?  
Jackson made a soothing gesture, starting to shake his head “Now, calm down, Reid, I barely–  
“Frostbite.  
“What?  
“Here, his hands. Is it not frostbite?” Reid, leaning over the boy’s hands merely seconds ago, was now visibly restraining himself from frantically tearing off the little boy’s shoes. But instead, he took them off one by one, delicately removing the socks, exposing dark, almost black toes, mirroring the deathly colour spreading from the tip of the fingers to the wrists of the little hands, and the thin lips of the boy.  
Reid slowly rose up, locking eyes with the captain.  
“That’s some pretty nasty frostbite, yeah…” Words quit the captain’s mouth almost distractedly. “Also, look. His socks are damn clean.” Jackson swiftly opened the dirt covered jacket. The jersey and shirt underneath were spotless – and also slightly too big for the child in them. Judging by his wrists, it was probably due to a long period of malnutrition.  
“Reid, when did the boy disappear? That rich-ass Wain-something boy?   
“Yesterday morning. I think –

The door burst open once again, on Holmes, Watson and Drake, who all hurried in, without a sound. Drake approached Reid and said, in the lowest voice he could: “I am sorry, sir. I tried to keep them away, they’re not police. But they wouldn’t go. Also I’m with the Doctor here. Whatever it takes to save the children.”  
Reid silently assented with a brief nod.  
A slow, almost detached voice rose up.  
“You are aware this is not the child we are looking for, are you?”  
Reid straightened, casting a swift look at an obviously certain Jackson. “As a matter of fact, yes. Could you please enlighten us as to how you came up to that same conclusion?”  
The atmosphere had changed. A wave of something Reid couldn’t help but understand as relief had washed over the newcomers. Faces were less tense, shoulders had dropped. Even Drake looked slightly more composed – although it more than probably was because he knew Abberline would be relieved himself, and wouldn’t fall as hard on them if this was revealed to be a scam and the rich boy was still alive. Because there was still a life left to save.   
Reid didn’t feel relief. The bilious taste at the back of his throat was disgust. Eyes on the tiny body, jaw clenched, he didn’t even listen to Holmes telling his side of the story; until he heard the word “photograph”.  
His head immediately fired up, and he almost ran the few steps around the dissection table that were separating him from the consulting detective. “You have a photograph? The Wainworth gave _you_ a photograph?”  
Holmes arched his eyebrows -  but calling this an expression of surprise would have been far-fetched. Fishing inside his jacket, he produced a portrait Reid had been allowed to peer at briefly a day, but more seemingly years ago. “Well, of course. Didn’t they give you one?”  
“They wouldn’t!” Drake spoke up, snatching the picture from Holmes’ hands, but not looking at it. He was clearly shocked. “They probably had very few of them, they wouldn’t trust us with this one, we were allowed a glance, but not to keep it with us, nor even take it to try and make a copy of it.”  
“But they trusted YOU.” Reid’s voice was suddenly booming, as he walked closer still to the consulting detective. Holmes didn’t move an inch, calmly looking at the man who was now near enough that he could feel his breath on his face.  
He did finally look genuinely surprised, however, when the inspector grabbed his lapel.  
“You, a man with no training, not a policeman -  
“Reid –  
“Inspector!  
“NO!” Reid pushed Drake aside, and let go of one side of Holmes’ jacket only to gesture at the place around them. “I let you come into my station, and peer through my archive, and you neglect to tell me you have this invaluable piece of information RIGHT IN HERE WITH YOU, AT THIS EXACT MOMENT?” His gaze didn’t quit Holmes when he commanded, in a more even voice: “Sergent, send a uniform to run and stop Chief Abberline before he gets to the Wainworths. No, go yourself and send whoever you can find. All of them. We need to stop him.”

Drake quit the dead room reluctantly, only because Jackson, from behind Reid, motioned him so.  He was not keen on following orders from the American, but the situation was dire, and Jackson looked like he could manage with Reid’s fury. After all, he had found himself at the receiving end of it more than his fair share since the three of them had met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (PS: of course Drake isn't relieved; it's Reid's twisted point of view speaking, I hope that's understandable.)  
> I hope my short chapter cuts aren't too annoying, but it helps me to keep the pacing. Or else you'd have endless chapters of useless dialogue, probably not that fun to read...


End file.
